Down London Road

guy who was staring at me. Our eyes met, and for some absolutely bizarre reason the connection felt physical, like acknowledging each other’s presence had actually locked me in place. I felt my heart rate pick up, the blood rushing in my ears.
    There was a fair distance between us, so I couldn’t make out the colour of his eyes, but they were thoughtful and probing, his brow creased as if he was just as confused by the static between us as I was. Why had he caught my attention? He was not the kind of guy I usually responded to. Aye, he was pretty good-looking.Messy dark blond hair and sexy stubble. Tall, but not as tall as Malcolm. This guy was probably six feet tall and no more. I would stand a few inches taller than him in the heels I wore tonight. I could see the muscles in his biceps and the thick veins on his arms because the idiot was wearing a T-shirt in late winter, but he wasn’t built like the guys I dated. He wasn’t broad and beefy. He was lean and sinewy. Mmm, ‘sinewy’ was a good word for it. And did I mention the tattoos? I couldn’t tell what they were, but I could make out the colourful ink on his arm.
    I didn’t
do
tattoos.
    When his eyes lowered under their lashes, I inhaled at the shock-like feeling that jolted through me as his gaze travelled down my body and back up again. I felt like squirming, overwhelmed under his flagrant perusal, though usually, if a guy checked me out like that, I would just smile back flirtatiously. The moment his eyes came back to my face, he offered me one last searing look – a look that I felt like a callused caress down my body – and then dragged his gaze away. Feeling dazed and decidedly turned on, I watched him stride off behind one of the art walls that divided the gallery into sections.
    ‘Who was that?’ Joss’s voice broke through my fog.
    I blinked and turned back to her with what I imagined was a stupefied look on my face. ‘I have no idea.’
    Joss smirked. ‘He was hot.’
    A throat cleared behind her. ‘What was that?’
    Her eyes twinkled mischievously, but when she turned to face her scowling partner she had schooled herexpression into one of innocence. ‘I meant from a purely aesthetic point of view, of course.’
    Braden grunted but pulled her tighter into his side. Joss grinned back at me and I couldn’t help but smile. Braden Carmichael was this no-nonsense, straight-talking, intimidating businessman, and yet somehow Jocelyn Butler had managed to wrap him around her pinkie.
    I think we stood there for about an hour, drinking the free champagne and discussing everything under the sun. Sometimes I felt intimidated when the two of them were together because they were so intelligent and knowledgeable. I rarely felt I had anything profound or interesting to add to the conversation, so I just laughed and enjoyed them teasing the hell out of each other. When I was by myself with Joss it was different. I knew Joss better than I knew Braden, so I was confident that she would never want me to feel like I had to be anybody other than myself. It was a nice change of pace from the rest of my life.
    We chatted with some other guests, trying not to seem confused by their enthusiasm for the art, but after an hour Joss turned to me apologetically. ‘We have to go, Jo. I’m sorry, but Braden’s got a really early meeting tomorrow.’ I must have shown my disappointment because she shook her head. ‘You know what? No, I’ll stay. Braden can go. I’ll stay.’
    No. Absolutely not
. I had seen myself through situations like this before. ‘Joss, go home with Braden. I’m fine. Bored. But fine.’
    ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘Positive.’
    She gave my arm an affectionate squeeze and took Braden’s hand. He gave me a nod, and I returned it with a smile and a ‘Goodnight,’ then watched as they walked across the gallery to the clothes rail where all the guests’ coats were hanging. Like a true gentleman, Braden held Joss’s coat for her and helped her shrug it on. He kissed her hair before he turned to pull on his own coat. With his arm wrapped around her shoulders, he led her out into the cold February night, leaving me inside the gallery with an unfamiliar ache in my chest.
    I glanced down at the gold Omega watch Malcolm had bought me for Christmas, and as always when I checked the time, I bemoaned the fact that I couldn’t sell it yet. It was possibly the costliest gift I’d ever received, and would do wonders for our savings. There was